“(…)This joy was worn out a long time ago, is it going to be reborn today?(…)” Neste caso, ele refere-se a memórias de infinitas viagens pelo mundo. E realmente de que nos serve criar memórias? Faz tudo parte do passado. São momentos impossíveis de reviver da exata mesma maneira, e talvez assim deva ser. Para mim, essas recordações trazem-me orgulho, de onde já consegui estar e o que já consegui fazer e passar por. São provas de que vivi. Talvez seja para isso que servem as memórias. E também, como este caderno, servem para o processo de aprendizagem, de lições do mundo. Sem ele nada existiria (estas Lucy vibes). “I dream about words, that’s all” “If I were to go on a voyage, I think I should like to make written notes of every aspect of my character before leaving, so that on my return I could compare what I used to be and what I have become (…)”. Como ele acha que viajar muda uma pessoa. Isto é uma excelente ideia para auto-conhecimento realmente.

“(…)This feeling of adventure definitely doesn’t come from events: I have proved that. It’s rather the way in which moments are linked together. This, I think, is what happens: all of a sudden you feel that time is passing, that each moment leads to another moment, this one to yet another and so on; that each moment destroys itself and that it’s no use trying to hold back, etc, etc, and then atribute this property to the events which appear to you in the form. In point of fact, people talk a lot about the famous passing of time, but you scarcely see it. You see a woman, you think that one day she will be old, only you don’t see her growing old and feel yourself growing old with her: that is the feeling of adventure. (…)” Normalmente, apenas quando nos entregamos ao momento e às suas respetivas sensações é que nos dá esse sentido de aventura. Ou bem mais tarde quando já estamos noutra fase e refletimos sobre o que passámos.

“(…) they call that irreversibility of time. The feeling of adventure would simply be that of the irreversibility of time. But why don’t we always have it? Is it because time isn’t always irreversible? There are moments when you get the impression that you can do who you want, go forward or back, that it has no importance, and then other moments when you feel that the mesh has tightened, and in these cases it’s not a question of failing in your attempt because you could never start again (…)” Esses casos em que o tempo não parece irreversível devem ser os pequenos atos do dia-a-dia, decisões que podemos alterar constantemente. Irreversíveis são as experiências por que já passámos, pois mesmo que as vivêssemos de novo não as viveríamos de igual modo nem aconteceriam da mesma maneira. E por isso sabem a aventuras. Momentos únicos inalteráveis que para sempre ficarão no passado vivendo apenas na nossa memória.

“That’s what I cal a handsome face. Worn and furrowed by life and passions. But the doctor has understood life, mastered his passions.”

“Monsieur Rollebon was my partner: he needed me in order to be and I needed him in order not to feel my being.”

“My saliva is sugary, my body is warm; I feel inspired. My penknife is on the table. I open it why not? In any case it would be a change. I put my left hand on the pad and I jab the knife into the palm. The movement was too sudden, the blade slipped, the wound is superficial. It is bleeding. And what of it? What has changed? All the same, I look with a feeling of satisfaction at the white paper, where across the lines I wrote a while ago, there is this little pool of blood which has at last stopped being me. Four lines on a white paper, a splash of blood, together that makes a beautiful memory.” Aqui ele explica um pouco qual o possível pensamento que vai por trás/justifica o self harm de pessoas depressivas. Sentem-se aliviadas por deixarem de ser elas mesmas por uns dolorosos segundos ou recorrem a esta experiência como prova de que existem e estão vivos ou como maneira de sentirem ALGUMA COISA.

“In the patch of sunlight, a fly is dragging it self along (…). I am going to do it the favour of squashing it. (…) It bursts, its little white guts come out of its belly; I have relieved it of existence. I say dryly to the Autodidact: “I’ve done it a favour”.” It shows a bit how the mind of a sociopath works: they play god, and put their feelings upon anyone else feeling like they have the right to make decisions for them because they know better. They think they are doing them some good, a favour, doing for them what they lack courage to do alone. Olha, como o jogo de suicídio da Baleia azul.

“The woman has dark, gentle eyes; The young man a rather leathery, orange-tinted skin and a charming, stubborn little chin. Yes, I do find them touching, but they also make me feel a little sick. I feel them so far away from me: the warmth is making them languid, they are pursuing a single dream in their hearts, so sweet, so low. They are at ease, they look confidently at the yellow walls, at the people, they consider that the world is fine as it is, just as it is, and for the moment each of them discovers the significance of his life in the life of the other. Soon the two of them will form just a single life, a slow, tepid life which will have no significance left at all- but they won’t notice that.”

“Every Sunday I used to go to Mass. Monsieur, I have been a believer. But couldn’t one say that real mystery of the Mass is the communion of souls? A French chaplain, who had only one arm, used to celebrate Mass. We had a harmonium. We listened, standing, bare-headed, and as the sounds of the harmonium carried me away, I felt myself a tone with all the men surrounding me. Ah, Monsieur, how I loved those Masses! Even now, in memory of them, I sometimes go to church on Sunday morning. We have a remarkable organista at Sainte-Cécîle.” Concordo perfeitamente em como a missa, que sirva de exemplo para qualquer outro evento do tipo, é uma desculpa gostosa para o Homem sentir-se em grupo, sociedade. Para partilharem algo em comum entre todos eles. Não é isso que estamos sempre a procura? Alguém que nos entenda e sinta-se da mesma forma?

“That was the year I was released. I spent some utterly miserable months. I didn’t know what to do, I wasted away. Whenever I saw some men gathered together I would insinuate myself into their group. There were times (…) when I joined the funeral procession of a complete stranger.” Mostra o desejo e preocupação do ser humano de pertencer a uma alcateia, a um grupo, a uma classe, enfim. Gostamos de estar em sociedade, não suportamos viver como ermitas ou a solidão.

“You see you don’t love them. You probably wouldn’t recognize them in the street. They are only symbols in your eyes. You aren’t the least bit touched by them: you’re touched by the Youth of Man, by the Love of Man and Woman, by the Human Voice. -Well? Doesn’t all that exist?-Of course it doesn’t exist! Neither Youth nor Maternity nor Old Age nor Death…(…) It’s like that old gentleman drinking Vichy water behind you. It’s the Mature Man, I suppose, that you love in him; the Mature Man bravely heading towards his decline and takes care of his apperance because he doesn’t want to let himself go?-“Exactly”, he says defiantly.-And you can’t see that he’s a bastard? (…)-But, Monsieur, even supposing that he looks what you say, how can you judge that man by his face? A face, Monsieur, tells nothing when it is in repose. Blind humanists! That face is so eloquent, so clear- but their tender, abstract souls have never allowed themselves to be affected by the meaning of a face.”

“The essencial thing is contingency. I mean, that, by definition, existence is not necessity. To exist is simply to be there, what exists appears, lets itself be encountered, but you can never deduce it. There are people, I believe, who have understood that. Only they have tried to overcome this contingency by inventing a necessary, casual being. But no necessary being can explain existence. Contingency is not na illusion, an appearance which can be dissipated, it is absolute and consequently perfect gratuitousness.” Ele está a falar de Deus e religião. É uma solução para o problema de existência e realidade.

“It was no use my repeating myself: It exists, it is still there, under the bench, against my right foot. It didn’t mean anything anymore. Existence is not something which allows itself to be thought of from a distance; it has to invade you suddenly, pouce upon you, weight heavily on your heart like a huge motionless animals- or else there is nothing left at all.”

“But the shiver was not a nascente quality, a transition from the potencial to the act; it was a thing, a thing- shiver flowed into the tree, took possession of it, shook it and suddenly abandoned it, going further on to spin around by itself. Everything was full, everything was active, there was no unaccented beat, everything, even the most imperceptible movement, was made of existence. And all those existentes which were bustling about the tree came from nowhere and were going nowhere. All of a sudden they existed and then, all of a sudden, they no longer existed: existence has no memory; it retains nothing of what has disappeared, not even a recollection. Existence everywhere, to infinity, superfluous, always and everywhere, existence is never limited by anything but existence.”

“The trees were floating (…). They did not want to exist, only they could not help it; that was the point. So they performed all their little functions, quietly, unenthusiastically, the sap rose slowly and reluctantly in the canals, and the roots penetrated slowly into the earth. But at every moment they seemed on the verge of dropping everything and obliterating themselves. Tired and old, they went on existing, unwillingly and ungraciously, simply because they were too weak to die, because death could come to them only from the outsider: melodies alone can proudly carry their own death within them like an internal necessity; only they don’t exist. Every existente is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance.” Beautiful metáfora para pessoas que are existing only, not living.

“’but if you really have thought about all that, what can we do?’ I bow my head. ‘I am outliving myself’, she repeats dully. What can I say to her? Do I know any reasons for living? I don’t feel the same despair as she does, because I never expected very much. I am rather…astonished at this life which is given to me – given for nothing. I keep my head bowed(…)” Ao encontrar alguém que está pior que ele quanto ao seu propósito de vida, ele suddenly fica muito mais positivo e grato pela vida que tem.

“You used to say that you wanted to act because on stage it must be possible to obtain perfect moments” “Yes, I’ve obtained them: for other people. I was in the dust, in the draughts, under glaring lights, between cardboard sets.”

“But weren’t you ever carried away by your part? A little, now and then: never very strongly. The main thing, for all of us, was the black hole just in front of us, at the bottom of which there were people we couldn’t see; to them we were obviously presenting a perfect moment. But they didn’t live in it; it unfolded in front of them. And do you think that we, the actors, lived inside it? In the end it wasn’t anywhere, either on one side of the footlights or the other, it didn’t exist; and yet everybody was thinking about it.” The frustrations of an actor.

“Today my life comes to an end. Tomorrow I shall have left the town which stretches out at my feet, where I have lived so long. It will no longer be anything but a name, stolid, bourgeois, very French, a name in my memory which is not as rich as the names of Florence or Baghdad. A time will come when I shall wonder: Whatever did I find to do all day long when I was at Bouville? And of this sunshine, of this afternoon, nothing will remain, not even a memory.” Oh Sartre, you know how I feel.

“My whole life is behind me. I can see it all, I can see the shape and the slow movements which have brought me this far. There is very little to say about it: it’s a lost game, that’s all. Three years ago I came to Bouville with a certain solemnity. I had lost my first round. I decided to play the second round and I lost again: I lost the whole game. At the same time, I learnt that you always lose. Only bastards think they win. Now I’m going to do like Anny, I’m going to outlive myself. Eat, sleep. Sleep, eat. Exist slowly, gently, like these threes, like a puddle of water, like the red seat in the tram. The Nausea is giving me a brief respite. But I know that it will come back: it is my normal condition.”

“Now and then I give such a big yawn that tears roll down my cheeks. It is a deep, deep boredom, the deep heart of existence, the very matter I am made of. I don’t let myself go, far from it: this morning I took a bath, I shaved. Only when I think back over all those careful little actions, I can’t understand how I could bring myself to perform them. They are so futile. It was my habits, probably, which performed for me.” É muito fácil ficarmos entediados com as nossas vidas, perdermos o rumo, o objetivo onde queremos chegar e assim ficarmos impregnados com a Nausea.

“How far away from them I feel, up on this Hill. It seems to me that I belong to another species. They came out of their offices after the day’s work, they look at the houses and the squares with a satisfied expression, they think that it is their town. A ‘good solid town’. They aren’t afraid, they feel at home. They have never seen anything but the tamed water which runs out of the taps, the light which pours from the bulbs when they turn on the switch (…). They are given proof a hundred times a day, that everything is done mechanically, that the world obeys fixed, unchangeable laws. Bodies released in a vacuum all fall at the same speed, the municipal park is closed everyday after four PM. (…) They are peaceable, a little morose, they think about tomorrow, in other words simply about another day; town have only one day at their disposal which comes back exactly the same every morning.” Exactly how I feel about life in São Miguel and now about life in America.

“Today the houses are there, but they have lost their rural appearance: they are buildings and nothing more. I had the same sort of feeling in the municipal park just now: the plants, the lawns, the Oliver Masquerat Fountain were so expressionless they looked positively stubborn. I understand: the town is abandoning me first. I haven’t left Bouville and already I am no longer here. Bouville is silent. I find it strange that I have to stay another two hours in this town which, without bothering about me any more, has put away its furniture and covered it with dust sheets so as to be able to uncover it in all its freshness for new arrival, this evening or tomorrow. I feel more forgotten than ever.” A beautiful description of when we are about to leave a place in which we have suffered so much, have finally gain strength to leave it behind, to close that chapter of our lives and to move on to a different place.

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